


In the Garden of Eden

by brightly_lit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Metafiction, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightly_lit/pseuds/brightly_lit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John told Dean it was about revenge, but it wasn’t really. You didn’t pull your family up by the roots and force your kids to live on scraps, in and out of a new school every year or even every month, expose them to hunters and weaponry and danger, for revenge. You did it because it was the only way to save your son."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Garden of Eden

Sam, as a grown man, turned around with a sinister smile ... only it wasn’t Sam, it couldn’t be; it was something else. Even from where he stood, having known his little boy only six years, John could see there wasn’t anything of Sam behind those cold, calculating eyes, his expression, once soft and vulnerable, now indifferent, with a wicked smirk.

Then his little Sam was there with John, looking up at him with huge eyes, saying, “Who is that man, Daddy?,” but he knew as the wicked man knelt down and beckoned to him. “I’m your real father,” he told John’s son. “Come with me, and we’ll rule the galaxy, together ....”

John woke with a start. That took a weird turn. It was Dean’s fault. That kid and his Star Wars action figures. He only had the Wookie and Boba Fett, but he still managed to tell every story in the trilogy, and a bunch of iffy side stories too, since he and Sam took on the roles of Han and Luke. To John’s chagrin, he was usually attributed the passive role of Darth Vader (while Bobby of all people got to be Obi-Wan), and Dean never seemed to get why this irritated John. Nor did Dean understand why Sam wanted to be Han instead of Luke. Dean would tell Sam Luke was the hero, that he was giving him the best role because he was an awesome brother like that, when of course it was just that Dean thought Han was cooler. Sam would rather be Luke, anyway. He was, and wanted to be, the hero: righteous, studious, good, always doing the right thing, always. It just came down to hair color. Sam was precise like that. Han had dark hair; therefore, he should be Han, even if he didn’t want to be. Sam was ready to take the role fate had assigned to him.

John rolled over, trying to shake off the miasma of horror the dream had cast over him, but he couldn’t, because it was exactly the way Missouri had described Sam’s future. “I see him in the Garden of Eden,” she had said, getting that far-away lilt to her voice that came when she was seeing another world, “dressed all in white, because he really believes he’s the good guy, but the world ... the world is laid to waste, and it’s his doing, John.” He knew Missouri well. She’d told him many things about his family, about his wife, about the past--horrifying, terrible things, but he’d never seen anything like this in her eyes before: desolation and despair. The end of everything. She’d seen it herself, and he could see it too, then, just looking at her face.

John hadn’t been able to believe it. “No,” he said firmly. “No, Sam wouldn’t. Not my Sam.”

“It’s not your Sam,” she said, her eyes shifting oh-so-slightly to the right, looking into another world, easy as that. “It’s him, but it’s not.”

“So what do I do?” he shouted. “What am I supposed to do with this?! He’s my SON! I mean, what am I supposed to do; kill my own--”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. John left in a rage that day. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t kill the messenger. He shouldn’t burn the bridge to that ally, who’d brought him every last shred of the most precious information he’d been able to collect about the most important hunt he’d ever gone on, the only hunt he’d ever really been on, for the creature that started all this that night in Sammy’s bedroom. It wasn’t Missouri’s fault. But you don’t tell a father to kill his own son. You just don’t, no matter what kind of monster he’s destined to become.

That was why John took the boys and went on the road. Dean had gotten curious about John’s obsession. John told him it was about revenge, but it wasn’t really. You didn’t pull your family up by the roots and force your kids to live on scraps, in and out of a new school every year, sometimes every month, expose them to hunters and weaponry and danger, for revenge. You didn’t train them to be little soldiers and give them orders to do things little boys should never have to do, for revenge. You didn’t refuse them things they loved and train them to kill and deprive them of a childhood, for revenge. You did it because it was the only option left to you to save what you cared about more than anything. You did it because it was the only way to save your son.

John was wrapped up so deeply in all these dark thoughts that the voice in the darkness sounded like the devil himself; he grabbed the gun from under his pillow, cocked and aimed all in one motion that took less than a second, to find himself staring down the barrel at Sam, who flinched back in terror. John relaxed with a sigh, uncocking the gun and putting it back where it came from. “Jesus, Sam,” he grunted. “You know better than to sneak up on me in the dark. What do you want?”

Sam was afraid to tell him now. Almost getting your head blown off just for coming to your dad’s bedside could do that to a six-year-old. The worst of it all was that Sam wasn’t even that surprised. John closed his eyes against the pain of knowing what he was doing to his children, the toll their messed-up lives were taking on their hearts and minds, their souls. How much did you give up in the present--how much did you make your kids give up in the present--so that they could have a future? When did you decide the cost was too high and let it go?

John could take them home and let them grow up like normal boys until the day everything changed, let them all be happy now and let the end come as it would, since the battle John was fighting with all his might was probably all for naught. “No matter what you do, he’ll always end up here,” Missouri said. But how could you just let your son go? John had looked at this from every angle. He’d grappled with it every day since Missouri told him, and he’d never been able to find a way to do anything different. It was who he was. Whatever the cost, he was willing to pay it. Sam was worth it. Saving Sam was worth anything he had to pay. Anything any of them had to pay.

The weight of the world was on him, and it made him sound impatient. “What is it, Sam?”

“Can I sleep with you?” came Sam’s voice, soft as a whisper. “I had a nightmare.”

John held open the covers for him and Sam climbed in, cuddling hesitantly against John’s side. “You’re getting a little old for this,” John noted. Sam lay perfectly still, afraid John would kick him out again if he said the wrong thing. John took a deep breath, wrapping an arm around Sam, smelling his hair, just a regular little kid in his arms in too-short Transformers pyjamas. Fighting to save the world, you didn’t get much opportunity to just be with the son who was destined to destroy it. John held him tighter. “Tell me about your dream,” he said. “Then you won’t have it again.”

Sam took a deep, quavering breath. Kids were funny. It was so hard for them to shake off dreams, scary movies, scary stories, afraid that fantasy could become reality between one moment and the next. Sam’s voice was high and thin as he began to answer: “I was in a garden, dressed all in white ....”

~ The End ~


End file.
